The Triumph of the Sun Page 14

  Darkness fell hot and heavy as a woollen cloak over the hills, but Penrod waited until Orion the Hunter was at his zenith in the southern sky before they left the camels and went forward on foot, Penrod leading with the Webley in the sash at his waist and the bared sabre in his right hand. They had done this many times before and they moved well separated but always in contact. Penrod circled downwind of the spot at which they had last seen the Dervish sentinel, and was grateful for the evening breeze, which covered any small sounds they might make as they closed in. He smelt them first, the smoke of their brazier, the sharp odour of burning camel dung. He snapped his fingers softly to alert Yakub and al-Saada, and saw them crouch obediently, dark blobs in the starlight behind him.

  He crept forward again, into the wind, keeping the smoke directly ahead. He stopped when he heard a camel belch and grumble softly. He lay flat against the earth and peered ahead, waiting with the patience of the hunter. His eyes scanned slowly over the broken ground in front of him, picking out every rock and irregularity. Then something changed shape and his eyes flicked back to it. It was small, dark and round, not twenty paces ahead. It moved again and he recognized it as a human head. A sentry was sitting just over the lip of a shallow nullah. Although it was after midnight the man was still awake and alert. Penrod smelt Yakub beside him, the odour of sweat, snuff and camels, and felt his breath warm in his ear. ‘I have seen him, and it is past time for him to die.’

  Penrod squeezed his arm in assent, and Yakub slithered forward silently as a desert adder. He was an artist with the dagger. His shape merged with the rocks and star shadows. Penrod watched the sentry’s head, and suddenly another appeared behind it. For a moment they became a single dark patch. Then there was a soft exhalation of breath and both heads sank from view. Penrod waited but there was no outcry or alarm. Then Yakub came out of the nullah with his peculiar crablike limp. He sank down beside his master.

  ‘There are five more. They are sleeping with their camels in the bottom of the nullah.’

  ‘Are the camels in harness?’ He needed not have asked. The men were warriors and would be ready to jump into the saddle and ride the moment they were roused.

  ‘The camels are saddled. The men sleep with their weapons beside them.’

  ‘Is there another sentry?’

  ‘I did not see one.’

  ‘Where is the well?’

  ‘They have not been foolish enough to camp beside the water. It is three or four hundred paces in that direction.’ Yakub pointed to the right end of the hidden nullah.

  ‘So, if there is another man he will be there, watching the water.’ Penrod thought for a few moments, then snapped his fingers again. Al-Saada came to crouch beside them.

  ‘I will wait between the camp and the well to watch for another sentry. The two of you will go in and make a place in Paradise for these sons of the Mahdi.’ Penrod tapped each of them on the shoulder, an affirmation and a blessing. They were better at this kind of close work than he was. He was never able to suppress his squeamishness when he had to kill a sleeping man. ‘Wait until I am in position.’

  Penrod moved out swiftly to the right. He reached the rim of the nullah and looked down into it. He saw the body of the man Yakub had killed lying under the lip. The man’s knees were drawn up to his chest and Yakub had covered his head with his turban to make it appear that he had fallen asleep at his post. Further on, the men and animals on the floor of the nullah were a dark huddle, and he could not tell one from another. Yakub must have crawled in close to count them. He moved into the shadow of a boulder from where he could keep an eye on the nullah and cover any approach from the direction of the well.

  He felt his nerves tingle as, first, Yakub and then al-Saada slipped over into the nullah below him. They blended with the mass of men and animals, and he could imagine the bloody knifework as they moved swiftly from one sleeping man to the next. Then, suddenly, there was a ringing scream and his nerves jumped tight. One had missed his stroke, and he knew it was not Yakub. There was instant confusion as the quiescent mass of bodies exploded into violent movement and sound. Camels lurched, bellowing, to their feet, men shouted and steel clashed on steel. He saw a man spring on to the back of one of the animals and burst out of the camp, riding up over the far wall of the nullah. Another Dervish escaped from the mêlée and bounded to the bottom of the nullah; he had gone only a short way when a figure raced after him in the unmistakable crablike style that covered the ground with deceptive speed. The two disappeared almost at once.

  Penrod was poised to run down into the nullah and join in the fighting, when he heard footsteps behind him and stayed low. In the starlight he saw another figure running towards him from the direction of the Widow of Ahab. This must be the second Dervish sentry. He was carrying his sword in his right hand and his shield on the other shoulder. When he was too close to escape, Penrod jumped into his path. The Dervish did not hesitate but charged at him, swinging with the long blade. Penrod parried easily, steel resounding on steel, and feinted at his head. The Dervish lifted his shield to counter the blow, and instantly Penrod sent his blade home, a classic straight thrust into the centre of his chest so that the blade went clean through, and shot out two hands’ span from the back of his ribs. With almost the same movement he cleared and recovered his blade, and the Dervish dropped without a cry.

  Penrod left him and raced down the bank into the nullah. He saw al-Saada stooped over a fallen body, slashing with his dagger across his victim’s throat; black blood sprayed from the severed artery. Al-Saada straightened and looked about him, but his movements were sluggish. Three corpses were lying where they had slept.

  ‘Botched! Two have got away,’ Penrod snapped angrily. ‘Yakub has chased one, but the other is mounted. We must go after him.’

  Al-Saada took a pace towards Penrod and the blood-smeared dagger fell from his hand. He sagged slowly to his knees. The starlight was bright enough for Penrod to make out his expression of surprise.

  ‘He was too quick,’ al-Saada said, his speech slurred. He took his other hand away from his chest and looked down at himself. The blood from the wound under his ribs darkened his robe to the knees. ‘Chase him, Abadan Riji. I will follow you in a little while,’ he said, and toppled on to his face. Penrod hesitated only a moment as he fought his instinct to aid al-Saada. But he could tell by the loose-limbed way in which he had fallen that he was already beyond any help that he could give, and if he allowed the Dervish to escape his own chances of getting through to the besieged city would be seriously threatened.

  ‘Go with God, Saada,’ he said softly, as he turned away. He ran to the nearest Dervish camel and mounted it. With his sabre he cut free the knee halter. The camel reared on to its feet and plunged into a gallop that carried them up over the rim of the nullah. He could just make out the shadowy shape of the other camel flitting ahead, like a moth in the starlight. Within a few hundred paces he had adjusted to the pace of the animal beneath him. It seemed strong and willing, and it must have been well watered and fed during the vigil at the Marbad Tegga. He used his body to urge it forward, like a jockey pushing for the post. A quick glance at the stars confirmed what he already knew: that the fugitive was heading directly south towards the nearest point on the Nile.

  They covered another mile, then Penrod realized that the Dervish had slowed his camel to a trot. Either he had been wounded in the skirmish, he was unaware that he was being followed or he was saving his mount for the long and terrible journey that lay ahead if he hoped to reach the river. Penrod urged his own camel to its top speed, and closed the gap swiftly.

  He was beginning to think that he might still come up with the Dervish before he realized his danger, but suddenly he saw the pale flash of the man’s face turned back over his shoulder. The moment he spotted Penrod he lashed out with his goad and urged on his mount with sharp cries. The two camels ran as though linked together, down through a dry wadi and up the stony ridge beyond. Then, gradually, Penrod�
��s mount began to exert its superior speed and stamina and closed in remorselessly. Penrod angled slightly across the enemy’s rear, planning to come in on his left, gambling on the chance that he was right-handed and would be least able to defend himself on this side.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, the Dervish swung his camel at a right angle from its track, and brought it plunging to a halt only a hundred paces ahead. As he swivelled on the high wooden saddle Penrod saw that he had a rifle in his hands, and was lifting it to level it at him. He had thought the Arab was carrying only his sword. and had not considered the possibility that there might be a weapon in the gun-scabbard behind the saddle.

  ‘Come on, then, you eater of pork!’ Penrod shouted, and reached for the Webley tucked into his sash. The range was too long for the weapon, and the back of a running camel was not a steady platform from which to fire, but he must try to spoil his opponent’s aim so he could get close enough for the blade.

  The Arab fired from the back of the standing camel. Penrod knew from the muzzle flash of black powder and the distinctive booming report that he faced a Martini-Henry carbine, probably one of those captured at El Obeid or Suakin. A fraction of a second later the heavy lead bullet tore into flesh and the camel stumbled beneath him. The Dervish whirled away, bowed over the carbine as he tried to feed another cartridge into the breech. Riding hard Penrod came up on his left-hand side with the sabre at cavalry point. The Arab realized he could not reload in time and let the carbine drop. He reached over his shoulder and drew the broadsword from the scabbard strapped across his back. He stared across at Penrod, and started back in the saddle with the shock of recognition.

  ‘I know thee, infidel!’ he shouted, ‘I saw thee on the field of El Obeid. Thou art Abadan Riji. I curse thee and thy foul, three-headed God.’ He aimed a heavy cross-bladed cut at the head of Penrod’s camel. At the last moment Penrod checked his beast and the stroke went high. The blade lopped off one of the animal’s ears close to the skull and the camel shied to one side. Penrod steadied it, but felt it stumble as the bullet wound in its chest began to weaken it. The Dervish was just beyond the reach of his sabre and although he thrust at him he could not touch him. His camel groaned. Suddenly its front legs collapsed, and it went down in a tangle. Penrod kicked his legs clear and landed on his feet, managing to stay upright.

  By the time he had recovered his balance the Dervish on his camel was a hundred paces ahead and drawing away swiftly. Penrod snatched the Webley revolver from his sash and emptied the magazine after the dwindling shapes of rider and camel. There was no thumping sound of a bullet strike to encourage him. Within seconds they had dissolved into the darkness. Penrod cocked his head to listen, but there was only the sound of the wind.

  His camel was struggling weakly to regain its feet, but suddenly it emitted a hollow roar and rolled over on to its back kicking its huge padded feet convulsively in the air. Then it collapsed and stretched out flat against the earth, its head thrust forward. It was breathing heavily and Penrod saw twin streams of blood spurt from its nostrils each time it exhaled. He reloaded the Webley, stooped over the dying animal, he pressed the muzzle to the back of its skull and fired a single shot into its brain. He took another few minutes to search the saddle-bags for anything of importance, but there were no maps or documents, except for a dog-eared copy of the Koran, which he kept. He found only a bag of dried meat and dhurra cakes, which would supplement their frugal rations.

  He turned away from the carcass and set off along his own tracks back towards Marbad Tegga. He had covered barely half a mile when he saw another camel and rider coming towards him. He knelt in ambush behind a patch of jagged black rock, but as the rider came up he recognized Yakub and called to him.

  ‘Praise the Name of Allah!’ Yakub rejoiced. ‘I heard a shooting.’

  Penrod scrambled up behind his saddle and they turned back towards Marbad Tegga. ‘My man escaped,’ he admitted. ‘He had a rifle and he killed my mount.’

  ‘My man did not escape, but he died well. He was a warrior and I honour his memory.’ Yakub said flatly. ‘But al-Saada is dead also. He deserved to die for his clumsiness.’

  Penrod did not answer. He knew there had been little love lost between them, for although they were both Muslims, al-Saada was an Egyptian and Yakub a Jaalin Arab.

  In the bank of the nullah beyond the enemy camp Penrod found a deep cleft in the rocks and laid al-Saada in it. He wrapped his head in his cloak and laid the captured Koran on his chest. Then they piled loose shale over him. It was a simple burial but in accord with his religion. It did not take long, and neither spoke as they worked.

  When they were done, they hurried back to the Dervish camp, and set about making preparations to continue the journey. ‘If we go swiftly we might still pass through the enemy lines before the alarm is spread by the one who got away.’

  The captured camels were all fat, well watered and rested. They transferred their saddles to them, and turned loose their own exhausted animals to find the water in Marbad Tegga, then make their way to the distant river. In the Dervish waterskins they had more sweet Nile water than two men needed. Among the provisions they found more bags of dhurra meal, dates and dried meat.

  ‘Now we have supplies enough to win through to Khartoum,’ Penrod said, with satisfaction.

  ‘They will expect us to head for the ford of the river at Korti, but I know of another crossing further to the west, below the cataract,’ Yakub told him.

  They mounted two of the fresh animals and, leading three others loaded with bulging waterskins, rode on southwards.

  They rested through the middle of each day, lying in the meagre strip of shade cast by the animals. The camels were couched in direct sunlight, which would have brought the blood of any other man or beast to the boil but they showed no discomfort. As soon as the tyranny of the sun abated, they rode on through the evening and the night. In the dawn of the third day, while the eternal lamp of the morning star still burned above the horizon, Penrod left Yakub with the camels and climbed to the top of a conical hill, the only feature in this burnt-out, desolate world.

  By the time he reached the summit, day had broken, and an extraordinary sight awaited him. Two miles ahead, something white as salt and graceful as the wing of a gull glided across this ocean of sterile sand and rock. He knew what it was before he lifted the field-glasses to his eyes. He stared at the single bulging lateen sail, which seemed so out of place in such a setting. He wasted a little more time revelling in the sense of relief and accomplishment that settled over him: the white wing of the dhow sailed upon the waters of the Nile.

  They approached the river with the utmost caution. While the terrors of the Mother of Stones were behind them, a new menace lay ahead: men. The dhow had passed out of sight downstream. When they reached the riverbank it was deserted, revealing no sign of human habitation. Only a flock of white egrets flew eastwards in an arrowhead formation, low across the steely waters. There was a narrow fringe of vegetation along each bank, a few clumps of reed, scraggy palms and a single magnificent sycamore tree with its roots almost planted in the mud at the edge. An ancient mud-brick tomb had been built in its shade. The plaster was cracked and lumps had fallen out of the walls. Faded coloured ribbons fluttered from the spreading branches above it.

  ‘That is the tree of St al-Maula, a holy hermit who lived at this place a hundred years ago,’ said Yakub. ‘Pilgrims have placed those ribbons in his honour so that the saint might remember them and grant any boon they seek. We are two leagues west of the ford, and the village of Korti lies about the same distance to the east.’

  They turned away from the riverbank so that they would not be seen by the crews of any passing dhows and made their way westward through wadis and tumbled hillocks until they reached a tall stone bluff that overlooked a long stretch of the Nile. For the rest of that day, they kept their vigil from the summit of the cliff.

  Although the Nile was the main artery of trade and travel for an area lar
ger than the whole of western Europe, not another vessel passed, and there was no sign of any human presence along this section of the banks. This alone made Penrod uneasy. Something must have disrupted all commerce along the river. He was almost certain that this was what Bakhita had warned him of, and that somewhere close by a massive movement of the Dervish armies was under way. He wanted to get across into the wastes of the Monassir desert as soon as possible, and to keep well away from the banks until he was opposite the city of Khartoum and could make a final dash into Gordon’s beleaguered stronghold.

  When the angle of the sun altered, it penetrated the water, and the darker outline of the shallows was just visible. A submerged spur of rock pushed half-way across the stream, and from the opposite side an extensive mudbank spread out to meet it. The channel between the two shallows was deep green but narrow, less than a hundred and fifty paces across. Penrod memorized its position carefully. If they used the empty waterskins as life-buoys, they could swim the camels across the deeper section. Of course, they must cross in darkness. They would be terribly vulnerable if they were caught in midstream in broad daylight, should a Dervish dhow appear unexpectedly. Once they had reached the far bank they could refill the skins and press on into the Monassir.

  In the last hour of daylight Penrod left Yakub with the animals on the heights of the bluff and went down alone to examine the bank for tracks. After casting well up- and downstream he was satisfied that no large contingents of enemy troops had passed recently.

  As darkness fell Yakub brought down the string of camels. He had emptied the last of the water from the skins, blown them up and stoppered them again. Each camel had a pair of these huge black balloons strapped to its flanks. They were roped together in two strings so that they would not become separated in the water.